Swan Song
by believeindreamers
Summary: **There’s still time, you said in the car after the last call, there’s still time for things to go back to normal. He can still come back, you said, and even reeking of whiskey, you knew it wasn’t true.**


_I recognized your number,  
It's burned into my brain.  
Felt my heart beating faster,  
Every time it rang.  
Some things never change,  
That's why I didn't answer._

She knows the number by heart. A press of a button silences the ring before she jerks her hand away, and the cell phone skitters across the polished surface of her coffee table. Her cup is in its path, and the vibration taps it against the porcelain like the final SOS call of a sinking ship. The ringing begins anew, and this time she simply lets the tune play out. It doesn't fit, anymore; not here, not against a backdrop of such misery. But neither can she bring herself to change what he chose for you, any more than she can stop paying the bill on a phone he'll never use again. She can't let go, neither can you; not when giving up still feels like betrayal. There's still time, you said in the car after the last call, there's still time for things to go back to normal. _He can still come back,_ you said, and even reeking of whiskey, you knew it wasn't true.

_I don't need to check that message.  
I know what it says . . ._

With a final trill the phone goes quiet. Her soft sigh of guilty relief is interrupted by the metallicized voice informing her that she has a one, new message. She already knows what you'll have said. Once, it would have pleased her. Now she knows that even apologies can hurt. Words don't heal. Sometimes, she thinks she hates the sound of your voice.

_I bet you're in a bar,  
Listening to a country song.  
Glass of Johnny Walker Red,  
With no one to take you home.  
They're probably closing down,  
Saying, "No more alcohol."  
I bet you're in a bar  
'Cause I'm always your last call._

The first tear falls before she even gets out of the car. She clings to the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles are white with strain, and even the most desperate of self-delusions can't attribute the sudden storm to anger. It happens like this every time; the empty box of tissues in the passenger floorboard lies in mute testimony to her grief. Though she wants to, she can't just leave you here. She's all you've got left, and without you to blame, the only person left to hate would be herself.

So she climbs out of the car, out of place in black slacks and a pale silk shirt, but it doesn't matter. The bar is almost empty, save for the employees closing up for the night and you sitting alone at the far end of the room.

She doesn't trust herself to speak, only grips your elbow and levers you to your feet. You lean on her as she guides the way to the door. No one looks up; obviously you've learned to settle your tab before you call, at least. She isn't sure which of you trips over the curb; though she catches her balance, you can't. She lets you fall. You've done worse to yourself since it happened, and with this much liquor flowing in your veins, you probably won't even feel the impact. Still, once down you don't seem immediately inclined to get back up. The strain is simply too much.

"_Why do you do this_?" Her voice is half sob, half scream. Like her emotions, torn between cruelty and compassion. "Why _this_ bar? Why _me_? _Why can't you see what this is doing to everyone who loves him?_"

The eyes that meet hers are bloodshot and glassy with the alcohol, but the color is still the same rich chocolate brown.

"He's never getting better," you say dully, all spirit gone, hope extinguished. "Is he, Lisa?"

She sits beside you on the worn pavement, close enough that your knees touch. She isn't angry anymore, but without that crutch, she's not sure what else to be. She thinks of House, so unnaturally still in that hospital bed; and the lunch hours she spent in the chair beside it, the television turned on so no one can hear her crying.

"No." Her voice is thick, the words forcing their way past the lump in her throat. "He's not."

You nod, solemnly, laying your head on her shoulder. The sobs are silent, but powerful enough that your whole body shakes with the force of it.

"I'm sorry," you plead, like a child begging forgiveness for some terrible transgression. "I didn't want to hurt him. I just didn't want her to die."

_How could you even ask that of him_? she wants to ask. _You were supposed to take care of him_. _You were supposed to realize he'd do anything for you, no matter how stupid or dangerous. __**You were supposed to put him first**__, and instead you lost them both._

She found Chase's letter of resignation on her desk two days after House lapsed into a coma following deep brain stimulation. The envelope for House that had accompanied it is safely stored in the bottom left hand drawer of her desk, along with a forwarding phone number for the young Australian. Cameron hadn't followed him, instead sinking herself even more deeply into her work in the ER. The rest of House's team are still huddled in their glass cage next to your empty office. They'd lost three of the seven patients they'd taken on since the accident, and she expects Foreman to call it quits any day.

_How had it all gone so wrong?_

_Call me crazy but  
I think maybe  
We've had our last call._

* * *

A/N: In case any part of this is unclear (having written this at 4 a.m., something is probably screwed up), this picks up at the end of the season 4 finale, just before House wakes up. The song I had envisioned as Wilson's ringtone is Abba "Dancing Queen" just as House threatened in Season 5. The song lyrics are from "Last Call" by LeAnn Womack.


End file.
